


The Black Box

by Electroid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Depression, Gen, Hurt Percy, Suicide, Weasley Bashing, Weasley Family, only slightly though, suicidal percy weasley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 12:25:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5163758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Electroid/pseuds/Electroid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Percy is just so tired of hurting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Black Box

**Author's Note:**

> Character death kids, just to let you know.

It was late in the evening- sometime past seven, but other that that he didn't know- and Percy was sitting in his room. In front of him there was three things, a piece of parchment, a self-inking quill and a medium sized black box. The parchment was covered in his small, precise handwriting and the ink was nearly dry. The quill had been a gift, and he thought it was fitting that he used it to write- to say- what he did. Neither of these items were a cause for suspicion, especially not for Percy, who was constantly working on something. But the black box- worn and aged around the edges, with a tarnished steel lock- was.

 

That black box had been a mystery for every person who lived at the Burrow- except for Percy of course- they had all tried to open it when the bespectacled Weasley was away. But none of them had ever succeeded in opening it. No one. 

 

It had just appeared on day, in Percy’s room, innocently sitting on his desk. With its old lock and subtle ‘do not touch’ vibe. And, well, privacy wasn't all that sacred or available in the Weasley home, so it was only natural that the locked box would attract attention. What was so important to perfect Percy that he would lock it away? So, with that question lingering in their minds his entire family tried- one by one- to open the box.

 

But it would open for no one, no one but Percy that is. 

 

And now, as the thin redhead watched the ink set and dry onto the perfectly rectangular parchment, he smiled. Reaching slowly towards the steel lock.

 

The metal glowed slightly as he touched it before opening with a cheerful ‘click’. Percy sighed, a soft, happy sound and pulled the rough cloth bag from its case. He cradled it in his hands, eyes washing over the ancient fabric with a steady relief building in his gaze.

 

I’ll make it ok. He thought, unwrapping the cloth. I’ll be ok after this, I’ll be free.

 

His thoughts were muddled, distant and his actions were slightly delayed, he moved in a hazy trance- conversations long forgotten by all but him were running repeatedly through his mind, flashing before his eyes. 

 

The twins had been at it again. All humiliating pranks and ‘subtle’ hating glares that everybody saw but pretended they didn't. Because they thought the same thing. Even Mum- Dad. Perfect pompous poncy Percy. The stuck up, nosy freak of the family. The one who prefers reading over Quidditch- the one who prefers the safety of rules over the rush of breaking them. Maybe they loved him- in that mandatory way someone loves a distant aunt or cousin twice or thrice removed- maybe. Somewhere- somewhere deep and hidden, almost forgotten, there was a place for him in their hearts- their family- or, so he hoped. They couldn't actually hate him, not for just being different. Maybe just a strong dislike? That’d be better. But he knew, and Merlin, it hurt! It had hurt- had been a lingering feeling of knowing- for a very long time. And Percy was sick of hurting.

 

It hurt when he was seven, begging Bill and Charlie to let him play too. And they laughed- it wasn't a nice laugh, cold and mocking- before leaping on their brooms and flying off. Leaving their little brother alone, standing on the grass, watching them with tears in his eyes.

 

It hurt when he tried to be a part of the family, and they asked him why he was there. In a cool, polite tone that always seemed to scream “we don’t want you.” 

 

It hurt when they talked about him. When they thought he was gone or too far away to hear their whispers. When they talked about everyone’s positions in the family, and when they came to him… They laughed. Said he was the loser, the pompous prat, the freak. The ponce. That last one always hurt the most- because they were right. He was.

 

It hurt, it hurt so much.

 

When the twins always used him to test their products or to try new pranks. And when everyone laughed with them- at him. 

 

When Molly stifled a chuckle at their antics, before reluctantly telling them to reverse it, or to “be nice to your brother”.

 

When Arthur sneered slightly as he spoke about one day becoming the Minister of Magic- Percy doesn't want to, he just thinks that it might- maybe- make them proud- before turning back to his paper or muggle something and saying. “Don’t be silly Percy.”

 

When he leaves the house for days at a time. Trying to see if they would care if he disappeared, only to come home and realize that they never even noticed he was gone.

 

When they leave for a family outing, to muggle London, to Diagon Alley, and forgot him- and later, on one of the rare occasions he feels like one of them, they talk about that trip. And he realizes that they didn't notice he wasn't with them- that they honestly just didn't care enough to see him.

 

When he spends his birthday alone in his room. Because they forgot- again.

 

When they don’t notice the bloodstains on his clothes, the cuts on his wrists. Even though he doesn't really try to hide them.

 

When they only reason any of them ever paid any attention to him was because he bought a old, black box with a tarnished lock. 

 

Percy was tired of hurting.

 

So he began to unwrap the heavy cloth bundle in his hands. 

 

The material fell away to reveal a simple, almost crudely cut glass vial. It was small- compared to the shear amount of fabric that had surrounded it- the container could comfortably sit in the palm of his hand. The glass was thick and clear and the potion seemed to float in the centre of the vial, a large tear-drop of soft illuminant blue with subtle swirls of purple peeking through. 

 

Pride fluttered up in his mind and Percy let himself grin widely as he cradled the small potion in his hands. It was beautiful, deadly and his. There was no cure for this, he knew, no cure, no replicas or sister, no name. He had made it in a small unassuming room at Hogwarts, using dangerous and deadly ingredients, some stolen from Snape’s precious collection and some found deep in the heart of the Forbidden Forest late at night. Percy had slaved over his cauldron for months, nurturing his creation until it began to glow that wonderful otherworldly blue. It was his.

 

Percy thought it was fitting that his potion was nameless, because- like the deadly green light of the Killing Curse- it was unknown exactly how it killed its victims. Well, he knew, but that was unimportant. And he felt that naming it would somehow add a label or create an assumption that that name was linked to how the pretty blue and purple liquid slowly stole the lifeforce of the drinker. He didn't want people to know how, because then they would be able to learn how to reverse it- to make a cure. 

 

Luckily, it was only possible to discover the origins and therefore the cure to a poison if there was more than one in existence, or if the notes and ingredients list were available to the potions master deciphering it. But Percy was smart, and he didn't want anyone to be able to force his creation apart piece by piece. 

 

His notes were useless fragments of ash, dust that had been spelled to repel summoning and -if somebody managed to overcome the numerous wards and curses that were present on the ash, and if they managed to find each and every individual spec- spells that resist repair and renewal charms. He had never written the ingredients down, instead deciding to rely on his memory and strong occlumency shields. And the poison was one of a kind, and it was currently resting innocently in his hands. The potion was virtually undetectable and even if traces of it were discovered, the only thing they would be able to identify is that it was the cause of death. 

 

The cause of death will be an unidentified, untraceable, incredibly powerful poison.

 

Percy wasn't sorry for what he was going to do. He had no regrets. He had briefly- once or twice- entertained the idea of just leaving this world behind, of packing up and leaving. Living the rest of his life somewhere far away. But he knew that his type of pain didn't fade with distance, he knew that it would always haunt him. Eating away at his heart and soul and leaving behind only a sad empty shell of a person. This level of hurt doesn't fade.

 

And Percy was so, so tired… tired of all the hurt, the pain. 

 

Slowly, he twisted the cap until it opened with a cheerful ‘pop’, a small gasp of fumes rose up, filling his room with the sweet scent of fresh grass and rain. He was still for a long time, eyes closed as he breathed it in. He could feel himself relaxing- a side effect of the fumes- and his previously straight and perfect posture relaxed as he slumped into his chair. 

 

As he brought the vial up to his lips he glanced towards the letter sitting before him on the desk. A small hateful, vindictive side of him wanted them to hurt too. He wanted them to see how much pain they caused and he wanted them to feel it too, he wanted their guilt to eat at them for the rest of their lives, he wanted it to destroy them. But he knows it won’t. They won’t really care- not that much. They might be sad, for a bit. Mum, he knows, will cry and Arthur, he would mourn. But they’ll be ok, sooner with him than if it had been any other one of their children. He didn't know how it would affect his eldest brothers, would they miss him? The twins would pretend to mourn out of courtesy to their mother, but as soon as they could they’d be celebrating his death, probably along with Ron and Ginny. 

 

Tears pricked at his eyes and he angrily blinked them away. It doesn't matter. Not anymore. 

 

He moved to lie on his bed, preferring to be found there rather than a crumpled heap on the floor by his desk. The thin redhead once again brought the vial to his lips, he tilted his head back and poured the smooth blue and purple liquid down his throat. 

 

He started to feel the effects immediately because- while it didn't work as fast as Avada Kevada- he had still designed it to be relatively fast working. He didn't want to be saved.

 

His vision blurred, fluctuating rapidly between the clear of his glasses and a blotchy, hazy mess. His concentration wavered, his muscles struggled to support his seated position and he collapsed back onto his bed.

 

His conception of time was gone he had spent what seemed like forever in the distracting haze and he could feel his life bleeding slowly away with every breath, the warmth of the potion was spreading quickly through his veins. 

 

It was so peaceful- dying. The pain and hurt was fading, replaced by a sweet welcoming black embrace, and Percy welcomed it. The room was rushing around him, his ceiling an indescribable grey-black blur and his eyelids grew heavy, forcing them to stay open seemed to be too tasking of an effort. So he let them close. Listening to his rapidly slowing heartbeat and laboured breathing he was finally at peace. His breaths grew even more stuttered and they began to catch in his throat, his heart tried futilely to keep beating- and failed- forcing out a few final desperate beats. The warm black ate away at his remaining pain and tugged him softly- forcefully- away from the final few parts of himself that were still holding tightly onto life. 

 

As Percy drew in his last breath and his heart gave its final beat, one thought fluttered lazily to the surface of his mind.

 

'I wonder how long it will take them to notice.'

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
